Falling
by amaranth
Summary: The oldest rule in the book is never to fall in love with your bet. But what happens when the bet is Ginny Weasley, and the stakes are thier lives? Can Draco hand Ginny over to the Dark Lord without a fight? Wow is this summary bad.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer:  Any characters, places, or events that you recognize in this story most likely belong to JK Rowling and Warner Brothers.  I am in no way associated with either entity.  I'm just borrowing the characters for a bit, and am making absolutely no money off them.  In addition, at the beginning of each chapter I use lyrics from the song "Girl" by Tori Amos.  She wrote the song, and again, I am not making any money off it by putting it in my story.  So, if by any spectacularly odd trick of nature one of the people I have named read this, please don't sue me.  **

**Author's Note:  This is a Draco/Ginny angsty fic which is set the year after Draco graduates from Hogwarts.  This chapter is a sort of introduction, while everything else is a flashback, from Draco's point of view.  The lyrics to the song "Girl" just provide a sort of vague plot line for the story.  And to top it all off, I present to you mostly-in-character Draco!  Tah-dah!**

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_From in the shadows she calls_

_And in the shadows she finds her way_

_Finds her way…._

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**Prologue **

          I think the first time that I really saw Virginia Weasley was three years ago.  Of course, I had seen her in the hallways at Hogwarts; I knew who she was.  But until that night she had simply been another Weasley, another mouth they couldn't afford to feed.  She had been the Weasel's younger sister and an easy target for my cruel jokes.  After all, my first words to her had been to tease her about her crush on Harry Potter.  My last words to her were much the same.  Even as I tell myself that I will never again hurt anyone the way I hurt her, I know I am lying.  I am a Malfoy, it is what we do; we use others to our advantage, we manipulate their lives to please us.  We betray.  It is what I did.  And because of this I will probably never speak to her again.  

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          That night was exactly three years ago.  It was fall, and I had graduated from Hogwarts the previous spring.  I was free from everything:  free from Potter, from his friends and allies, from the stupid restrictive rules of school.  I had graduated as Head Boy, and had finally beaten Potter at a Quidditch game.  For the first time, my life was exactly how I wanted it to be.

          I had thought that this would have been enough for my father.  Although I knew happiness meant nothing to him, I thought my grades and athleticism would at least be acknowledged.  But no, I had forgotten one crucial element to our relationship, something that had been waiting for me since before I was born.  There was still one thing I had to accomplish in order to do right by him. 

          You've guessed it by now, because naturally, the only ambition a Malfoy can have is to become a Death Eater.  Although the guess is correct, in the reasoning you are mistaken.  I had no ambition to become a Death Eater.  In fact, I had no ambition at all.  Had I felt the need to become anything from a street artist to the Minister of Magic, I would have done so.  I would have rebelled and ignored the repercussions.  However, I had no such desires, and so I accepted my lot as it was offered to me.  It seemed reasonable enough.  

          The particular day on which my story takes place became known as Voldemort's Last Stand.  Not too creative a title, but an appropriate one never the less.  It was his last attempt to kill Potter.  There was nothing extravagant or complicated about the plan that The Dark Lord had crafted for the occasion.  That in its self was unusual because every other plan had been so intricate that they had all been doomed to failure.  This one was simple:  the Death Eaters would take someone hostage, and Potter would try and rescue them.  When he came, they would kill him.  That was really all there was to it.

          Hopefully Potter wouldn't be expecting another attack.  He had grown used to having one every year, and yet his graduation had gone off without a hitch.  In fact, I thought bitterly, he had probably been disappointed that he hadn't left Hogwarts with a bang.

          The decision of who to use for a hostage wasn't too difficult.  They couldn't use Sirius because he was too hard to find - still on the run after all those years.  They couldn't use Hermione or Ron, because Harry would immediately know they were missing.  He had no family to speak of, and few close friends.  Of course, they could have picked anyone and he would have come to their rescue, possibly even if the victim had been me.  However, they wanted it to be someone he would feel some responsibility for, someone he cared about at least a little.  This left Ginny.

          She was perfect for it.  She could easily be led into a trap. She was the Weasel's sister and Granger's closest female friend.  Potter would come for her at exactly the right time, and he would still be too confident to notify the authorities about her disappearance.  Best of all, Ginny's disappearance would cause very little commotion outside those immediately involved.  The one thing that people always remembered about Ginny was that everyone ignored her.

          This stint wouldn't just be a replay of the Chamber incident either.  That plan had relied on too many things, between the basilisk and the journal.  This time it would simply be Harry against Voldie and the rest of the Death Eaters. Potter would be badly outnumbered, and he was unaware of the amount of power that the Dark Lord had regained.  Ron and Hermione would come with Harry, of course, but they didn't stand much of a chance of helping him either.  After all, Granger _was a mudblood, and Ron was… well, Ron.  Ginny, would not be allowed to fight; her role would end when Potter arrived._

          The Death Eaters wouldn't hurt Ginny, at least not until Potter was dead.  If they were going to lose they would want to attract as little attention as possible, and if they won, they could dispose of her later.  By then Ron would probably be dead as well, and even in death she would be overshadowed by her siblings.

          If we could lure her to the edge of the Forbidden Forrest, the one farthest from Hogwarts, then we could get around the anti-apparation charms and make a quick exit.  The entire scheme posed only one major problem, which was how to get Ginny where she was needed.  It was clear that some sort of bait was needed, for someone to act as a go between.  At the time, there were only four of us of the right age; Crabbe, Goyle, Pansy, and myself.  I would have thought that Pansy would have worked better, but they chose me.  I suppose it was because I had recently turned eighteen and would be needing an assignment soon.

          They told me I would have to make friends with Ginny over a short period of time and win her trust gradually, until I could get her away from Dumbledore's supervision.  I didn't understand why everyone thought it would work.  I failed to believe that even kind-hearted Ginny Weasley would risk leaving the warmth and safety of Hogwarts to talk to me.  After all, the few occasions on which I had spoken to her I had insulted her and made her cry.  As for the occasions on which I didn't embarrass her, it wasn't out of mercy.    

          Furthermore, I represented everything that was evil to her.  I was a Slytherin, a bully, and the Anti-Potter.  She probably thought that I had become a Death Eater years before.  Who didn't?  If she had been born to Death Eaters, she would have known the truth; that one can not join until one has turned eighteen and completed a set task.  Only a select few Slytherins were aware that I wasn't a Death Eater yet, as I was aware that they weren't.  I could have told the Gryffindors the truth, but I let them think what they would.  I relished the fear I saw in their eyes.  It gave me power.  

          I lived off the power all that time.  Yes, I was unfeeling ice to her compassionate fire.  How was I, armed with nothing but good looks and Dark Magic, to coax her out of her shell?

          Pansy, ever the gossip, knew the answer to this question.  In fact, she saved me from having to spend time befriending Ginny before the fact.  I would not have to earn her trust.  Ginny would not come to me out of friendly concern, but simply out of the desire to see me again after the long summer.  I thought that Pansy was joking.  It was utterly inconceivable;  Ginny Weasley did *not* and could *never* have a secret crush on me.  It just didn't happen.  I was her opposite, and although I was dead sexy (and knew it), I was ultimately someone to fear.  Besides, no one girl could have a crush on both me *and* Potter in the same lifetime.  It went against every rule in the book.

          I blurted this all out to Pansy, not knowing if it was a genuine thought or just panic.  She began to laugh somewhat maniacally.  I think it amused her that she would be at the source of Ginny's undoing.  Pansy was probably jealous that anyone could like me except her, although the feeling had never been mutual.  I cared for Pansy about as much as I cared for ambition.  I just didn't.  Whatever happened to me I simply let happen unless I was against it.  Unfortunately for me, the first thing that happened was Pansy.  I never protested, and she thought it meant I loved her.  She was so naïve, so gullible; all that time I felt nothing.

          Nothing was about as much feeling as I had for anything even remotely related to Death Eaters.  And even as my heart voiced its various doubts about my part in Voldemort's scheme, I knew I would go through with it.  I didn't know Ginny, so what did I care what happened to her?  Why should it matter if she got hurt?  And if her demise brought about Potter's, well then I might just have to celebrate.  Because he was one of the few things about which I was *not* indifferent.  I hated him.

          In the end, I did what was asked of me.  I wrote a love letter and owled it to her.  I still didn't think she would take it seriously.  I had no real objections, and the one bit of motivation that maybe Potter would finally fall.  Besides, this was to be part of my initiation into the darker circles of wizarding society.  It was the first job that I had been trusted with, and if I did well, I might receive my very own Dark Mark (just what I always wanted!).  So, I simply couldn't be seen refusing the Master and making a fool of myself.  I would follow through without complaint.  And anyway, I wanted to see for myself if the impossible had really occurred.  I needed to know if little Ginny Weasley could really like someone as horrible as me.  

**A/N:  If you like my story so far, please review.  If you don't like it, please review anyway.  If you are completely indifferent to the story, review!  I live for reviews, they make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.  Not as warm and fuzzy as, say, Draco, but they're really nice all the same.**

::Runs away chanting.  "Took my poor 'ickle fic to the doctor and the doctor said, 'Too many author's notes jumping on the bed!' "  Mwahahaha::


	2. Part One: The Arrival

**Disclaimer:  Any characters, places, or events that you recognize in this story most likely belong to JK Rowling and Warner Brothers.  I am in no way associated with either entity.  I'm just borrowing the characters for a bit, and am making absolutely no money off them.  In addition, at the beginning of each chapter I use lyrics from the song "Girl" by Tori Amos.  She wrote the song, and again, I am not making any money off it by putting it in my story.  So, if by any spectacularly odd trick of nature one of the people I have named read this, please don't sue me.**

**Author's Note:  Ginny makes her grand entrance.  Thanks to my happy beta-reader Kel, and… everyone else.  I've decided I don't thank my reviewers enough, so if you review you will be rewarded with a thank-you section!  (Not a good bribe, but the best I can do.)  By the way, after this bit it'll most likely be rated PG-13 for substance abuse, snogging and violence - oh my!**

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_And in the shadow she crawls,_

_Clutching her faded photograph_

_My image under her thumb_

_Yes with a message for my heart…_

_Yes with a message for my heart…._

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**Part One:  Forgotten**

          Three years can dull pain but not erase it.  I have tried so hard to forget that night and everything that went with it.  I have found, however, that it is nearly impossible to toss out the bad memories and keep the good ones.  As twisted as it sounds, in some ways that was the best night of my life.  Everything is bittersweet and since I can neither forget the past nor continue to live in it, I shall write it down instead.

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          On that godforsaken night, I heard her long before I could see her.  For someone so petite, she made an amazing amount of noise crashing through the underbrush of the Forbidden Forest.  The branches swished, the dried leaves crackled under her step, and there were a good number of muffled curses to be heard. 

          I began to see her shape forming from behind the trees.  First, a flicker of red hair caught my eye and then a flash of pale skin.  Then she stepped out, cloaked in shadows and still partly hidden by stray branches.

          Ginny Weasley was no longer a little girl.  I am sure that the transformation didn't happen overnight, but I hadn't paid much attention.  She was taller than I remembered, and her face looked older, although I couldn't say exactly why.  She still had the same button nose and the mischievous eyes that she had always had.  Her hair was still very obviously red in a way that only the Weasleys have perfected.  However, where one would think her hair would have turned blonder during the summer, it had instead darkened a bit.  It was longer and curled down her back in ringlets. 

          At this point, I must set the record straight.  Ginny Weasley was not beautiful.  She was still cute in almost the way that the little girl in pigtails had been cute.  I found her attractive because she was so completely different from anyone else I knew.  I suppose I had tired of all the Pansy Parkinsons and Fleur Delacours of the world.  I was tired of doing what everyone had planned for me, and Ginny Weasley was definitely not what anyone had in mind when they thought "Draco Malfoy's Girlfriend."

          Another point I need to make clear is that I did not fall in love at first sight.  Being the cynical creature that I am, I have never believed in that sort of thing.  Nevertheless, I had to continue to remind myself that she was a Weasley in order to keep from looking like an utter fool.

          These last three paragraphs of observation, they happened all within the blink of an eye.  One minute she was standing there across the clearing and the next minute she was on the forest floor.  Apparently, the one thing that hadn't changed about Ginny over the years was her total lack of grace.  As she stepped out of the shadows, her foot caught on a root and she went sprawling into the leaves.  

          Some small part of me wanted to help her up, to take the noble course of action.  There has always been a bit of me that wants to play hero.  I suppose this is part of the reason I can hate Harry so much; I have smothered the part of me that can identify with him.  I almost stepped out of the trees and helped her, and it would have been, up to that moment, the most out-of-character thing I had ever done.  I restrained myself, for if there is one thing we Malfoys have (besides money), it's self control.  I reminded myself that her falling down was the least of her problems.

          Ginny pushed herself up slowly, and stood.  I was still hidden in the shadows so she was unaware of my presence.  I observed her silently, noticing the leaves now tangled in her hair, and the streak of dirt across her cheek.  Now she was not a poor Weasley, she was also a dirty Weasley.  I should have been repulsed, but I was intrigued.

          I waited there, and watched emotions chase each other across her face.  As she looked around the clearing for me, I could almost read her mind.  I could tell when she began to think that the meeting was all a joke, and at that point, I stepped forward to meet her.

          I have many virtues, but modesty is not one of them.  I must have made quite a picture standing there in front of her, my hair silvery in the moonlight.  I was dressed in my usual uniform of expensive tailored black clothing.  Her taste probably runs towards faded jeans and flannel shirts, but I couldn't stoop so low.  Besides, I had set this whole thing up for her first impression of me, and the black worked so much better against the background.  I had calculated this, and I could tell it had paid off; the silly thing practically swooned.

          Her hand shaking, she handed me a piece of paper.  I unfolded it, and could see that it was the same letter I had sent to invite her to our little get together.  The paper was creased, almost falling apart, as if it had been read a hundred times.  That was highly unlikely though, because I had sent it to her that very morning.  I already knew what it said, and so I handed it back to her.  I let my hand linger on the paper so that our fingers touched.  She actually blushed at that point and ducked her head.  _So typically Ginny, I thought, but when she raised her head, she looked me straight in the eye.  She was searching for something I suppose, and I have no idea what she found.  _

          Then, in a manner completely different from her usual, she began to interrogate me.  She gestured to the letter in her hand.

          "Did you write it?  Did you really owl it to me this afternoon?"

          I couldn't believe she was questioning me, and answered accordingly.

          "I believe so.  We could have it analyzed for handwriting if you like."

          She actually had the nerve to scowl at me.  

          "You didn't have to be smart about it.  I just wanted to make sure it wasn't some sort of joke.  I'm not as stupid as everyone thinks.  Just because I'm quiet doesn't mean I don't notice things.  I noticed you, didn't I?  And playing some sort of joke on me over this wouldn't be completely out of character, would it?"

          "You have my word as a gentleman, this is no joke."  Then I smiled slightly, a smile completely without humor, although she no doubt found it  charming.  I was, in actuality, grimly acknowledging the truth of the matter.  This wasn't a joke, and if it was, I wasn't truly the one playing it on her.  

          My answer, however ironic, seemed to be enough for her.  The slightly bitter edge in my voice was obviously lost on her as she raised her eyes to mine and smiled warmly at me.

          I smile very rarely, and I am aware of the fact that my smiles never reach my eyes.  But Ginny's smiles, they light up her entire face.  I think it was the first time anyone had ever smiled at me like that, except maybe my mother when I was a very small child.  But she is dead now.  

          I digress.  As Ginny and I stared at each other for a few moments longer an awkward silence settled over us.  This whole situation was rather odd considering we had never actually had an entire decent conversation.  The extent of my kindness towards her had been to help her pick her books up off the floor one afternoon when I was a seventh year.  Of course, my intent had really been to sneak a look at a note Hermione had written to her, so I could use its contents against them both.  But she never found that out.

          I moved my gaze away from her and produced a blanket from behind a tree.  I spread it out on the ground, picnic style, and gestured for her to sit down.  I then produced a bottle of fine champagne and two small lumps of crystal, which I promptly transfigured into glasses.  Sitting down by her side, I offered her a glass, which she accepted.

          My intention was to get her as drunk as possible before Voldemort and his cronies arrived, in order to lessen the unpleasant shock of betrayal.  My father would be slightly miffed that I had not enjoyed Ginny's pain to the fullest, but in the long run it wouldn't matter.  Incidentally, my father had supplied me with the alcohol in the first place.  He was of the elk of upper class parents who encouraged their children to drink at home instead of elsewhere.  As a result, I had spent many a summer vacation getting thoroughly wasted in an effort to forget my life.  My father found this distasteful but never forbade it, for which I was grateful.

          Ginny sipped the champagne slowly and never took her eyes off me, which I found extremely unnerving.  Uncomfortable, I tried to make small talk about school and how she liked her seventh year.  She answered me in monosyllables, not wanting to discuss Hogwarts at all.  Obviously the place didn't hold the same kind of magic for her as it had for the Fantastic Three.  And who could blame her?  After all, her first year there she had done all sorts of horrible evil things while possessed by Tom Riddle.  I had envied her so at the time, wishing that I could do the bidding of the Dark Lord's younger self.  Back then the future did not seem as desolate as it does now, and the prospect of following in my father's footsteps was exciting.  I was mad at him for slipping the diary into her things and not mine.  I felt cheated.

          Evidently she wanted to talk about the world outside of Hogwarts, or "real life" as she called it.  She wanted to know whether I had a job yet, and if living on one's own is really all that it's cracked up to be.  As if I would know, cooped up in the Manor day after day and occasionally venturing to my father's office at the Ministry to help him with paperwork.  I shouldn't have told her any of the truth; I should have lied about everything.  But I didn't; my reasoning was that in a few hours she'd either be dead or have her memory modified anyway.  And so I told her the truth, about how utterly boring my aristocratic teenage existence was.    By the time I was finished ranting (somewhat maniacally) about the evils of new Quidditch rules forbidding the pursuit of a casual game in one's back yard, I was surprised to find that she hadn't died of boredom.  Instead, she was still staring at me with that same intense gaze as before.  It was beginning to make me feel as though I no longer had the upper hand.

          My anxiety mounting, I gulped down an entire glass of champagne, and moved to refill my glass.  I refilled her as well.  I began to believe that she had the same idea as me, that if she got drunk she would stop being nervous or something.  I saw her hand shake slightly as she brought the glass to her lips, I saw her eyes begin to glaze over.  She probably didn't notice, but as a seasoned drinker I observed that she was well on her way to intoxication.

          Slowly she began to get less tense and talk more freely.  She confessed that she had been too nervous to eat dinner, which accounted for her low tolerance for alcohol; it would hit her hard on an empty stomach.  We chatted amiably until we ran out of champagne.  I learned that she was very intelligent and had a sense of humor that ran towards dark.  Although nothing we talked about was truly important, it wasn't the meaningless drivel I discussed with Pansy either.  I learned how sorely I missed intelligent conversation that wasn't centered around taking over the world.  We discussed various spells and charms and compared notes on books that we had read.  I learned, much to my surprise, that if it weren't for her impending doom, her questionable breeding, and a thousand other things, I might have become friends with her.  We had an astounding number of things in common, and most of our differences were the result of radically different upbringings.  

          All in all, our discussion veered away from three essential things.  The first was any mention of the Dark Lord whatsoever.  The second was any comment about matters regarding wealth or muggles, both being sensitive topics.  The third was the complete and utter neglect to mention anything about emotions.

          Our conversation must have lasted about an hour, and although I knew more about Ginny's views on the current Minister of Magic, I was no closer to finding out why she had really come here for me.  Once I found out that vital piece of information, my work was essentially over.  All that would be left for me to do was to distract her until the others arrived.  They had not told me what time that would be, ostensibly so they could test my loyalty by seeing how long I would keep her there.  Personally, I felt it was simply because they couldn't be bothered with being on time.  All the Death Eaters were like that; they could never admit to being wrong about anything.  I possessed that same quality, but found it incredibly irksome in them.

          When the bottle was empty, Ginny was noticeably tipsy.  I suppose I was as well, although my mind seemed relatively clear at the time.  We had each had half a bottle, which wasn't by any means enough to get us drunk, but I had put a handy charm on it to amplify the effects of the alcohol.  

          Ginny hiccuped uncontrollably a few times and turned bright red.  Feeling that since I had dragged her out here on the pretense of being madly in love with her it was my duty to do something sentimental, I leaned closer to her and put my index finger to her lips, hushing her.  I muttered something utterly foolish about how cute she was when she hiccuped and kissed her gently on the lips.  I then sat back and surveyed my progress.  

          She blushed and ducked her head, then peered up at me while hiding behind her curtain of fantastically red hair.  Then she scooted over to sit next to me and leaned back on her elbows to look at the stars.  I followed suit and we both gazed at the stars in silence for a minute.  Then she spoke softly, telling me that she had never been kissed before by anyone who wasn't related to her.

          Although I will never know if she really thought it, I could almost hear her voice in my mind.  It whispered, lamented that I wasn't Harry, that Harry should have been the one to give her her first kiss.  That he had never given her so much as a peck on the cheek in all the years she had known him.  Inside my head, she whispered, _Why couldn't you be Harry?  The unspoken words hung in the air between us, or so I imagined.  _

          The next minute she was crying, a few tears streaming silently down her face.  She wasn't making any noise, and if I hadn't turned my head to look at her, I wouldn't have noticed.  The tears shimmered slightly in the moonlight as they slid down her cheeks over her numerous freckles.  Acting out of some ingrained aversion to seeing girls cry, I ineffectually tried to wipe away the tears with my thumb.  This simple act caused her to cry harder.  I looked on, not knowing exactly what to do.  

          In my slightly anxious state, I asked the first question that crossed my mind.  That question happened to be "Why are you crying?"  Apparently, it was what she wanted to hear, because she began to talk softly.  That one little innocent question brought forth a torrent of information of the very kind that I had wanted to know.  Had I not asked it, I would never have known about her family or her crush on Potter or her feelings for me, or anything else even remotely personal.  In a way, asking that question was like signing my own death certificate.  But somehow, by asking it, I had saved us both.  


End file.
